


Wander, Waver

by asemic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Literature, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: After his husband’s alcoholism brings neglect, John Irving wanders and takes interest in the groundskeeper Solomon Tozer.
Relationships: John Irving/Solomon Tozer
Kudos: 9
Collections: John Irving Birthday Week 2021





	Wander, Waver

He could not fault himself for falling for the man.

John wandered the wings of the stately home, estate to use the proper term with the amount of land consolidated under his husband’s numbing grip, and attended to nothing and everything at the same time. Though tastefully appointed it lacked the cheer he wished to invite onto others. Everything cast shadows associated with dour and heavy fabrics, stiff, wooden, and ensconced in choking layers. Overly formal, but it remained necessary to demonstrate his husband’s waining power. A piece locked in time.

No one would fault him for the spark catching in his chest, the dying ember fanned by the sudden administration of much-needed oxygen in the form of the stranger. He came into John’s life as a stray figure in the corner of his eye, a movement unlike the usual twitch of tree leaves and branches caught in the breeze. So used to those motions John often glanced out the window then returned his attention to the endless stacks of correspondences and household accounts piled neatly on his writing desk. But his gaze flicked back because it continued until he became aware of a man in a brown oilskin coat trudging closer to the house. His knee-high gaiters marched him through a muddy path with surety, the sort of self-confident strut John lacked even when attending to the household staff. From the second-floor window, John knew him handsome, understood the blurred features when finally seen up close came together to form an attractive face. His heart caught, but by the time John moved to get a better look he was gone.

He married a good man though it seemed the goodness buried itself under a layer of vices. Sometimes his stern features shattered to reveal the gaptoothed smile John promised to obey. The hand raised not to caress the crystal decanter but John’s wrist in the manner he did after John’s father arranged to the businesslike terms of the engagement. He loved him in an honoring way which slowly ticked closer to devotion, but never passion. What was love without passion? But John never found himself lingering on the question lest he experienced the discontent associated with the reveal. Yet. Yet, he preferred to remain a steadfast companion and an unwitting minder of the whisky stores. John attempted to moderate his husband’s intake while he promised to not drink more than the agreed upon amount. His husband proved a dreadful liar, as terrible as John inwardly longed. What did that make John then? Someone who busied himself with the affairs of the house while avoiding those in his heart. The hopeful flame he once held slowly smothered under the truth of their marriage. John remained unsatisfied in an estate bustling with potential but remained painfully silent.

John wasn’t one to explore the grounds. An invisible barrier existed around the confines of the house, his feet taking him along the circular path extending from the driveway then back around the sprawling residence. It was a lovely enough stroll filled with green grass, waist-high hedges, and a smattering of brightly colored flowers. Though a garden stretched well-beyond his eye line he remained on the curved path, a well-worn and magnetized loop. Much like a dog on a post padded the grass underfoot flat, John did the same with this walkway. But it remained such a nice way to spend a few minutes before he retreated to his neat desk or the library.

Of course, the time came where he extended himself away from the house and deeper into the expansive grounds. Once again it derived from a deviation of the usual. During his stroll, he heard a faint whistling and assumed it to be the call of a distant bird. It became louder and more musically pronounced, varied when he reached the very top of the circular path where his usual descent back to the front entrance began. It was no bird but a man who pierced the air with the trill. Curiosity pushed him forward, his shoes tapped against the brick while he outstretched his hand to brush along the landscape. The foxgloves tickled his fingers before giving way to the tall ornamental moor grass. He spent so long peering out the large back windows over this space, but never truly experienced it for himself. He rewarded satisfying his curiosity by tucking a plucked iris into his handkerchief pocket. It bent its heavy purple head against his shirt to bring a bit of cheer to his usual staid wardrobe.

It was him. John hesitated before stopping altogether at the sight of the man stooped over the edging. The thin shirt clung to the broad back to hint at rippling muscles. A peculiar warmth pulsed into each of John’s limbs compounded by the raw strength the man radiated. John pursed his lips together and puffed out a soft call of his own, a faint sharp sound in response to the whistler’s cheerful rise and fall. The groundskeeper stiffened slightly before unfolding his body into a strong line.

None would fault John for falling.

So it came, the moment of John’s separation from his desk and the invisible boundaries of the house. Mr. Tozer, sometimes Solomon--John remained his surname though he longed to become simply John--guided him through the garden. The pads of his fingers, knuckles, and around his nails were stained dirt black and he smelled like earth and sweat-musk, but John did not mind. During their structured meanderings, John felt his mind drift to the vision of him laboring. The compact body hidden under tantalizing layers lifted and shifted mounds of soil before he stripped to bare skin. He rolled his rounded shoulders before stretching his torso and John knew the shape of his body. The flushed nipples and the dark line of hair below his navel leading to a mass of curls nestling a soft, yet restless, penis. His member John drew in the air, a quick gesture the dressed and strolling groundskeeper observed with a questioning glance. When Mr. Tozer directed his attention to the forest with a quick mention of trees requiring felling, John wished to abandon the immediate landscape for the seemingly endless oaks and maples. Who better to explain the nature of the wood and the conditions of the property than a knowledgeable laborer? If he went there, if Solomon Tozer closed the distance until their lips met and bodies fell flush like paving stones, so be it.

That night John restlessly tossed and turned, the blankets strangling his legs as he knotted his thoughts around one singular bind. The groundskeeper drew all of his focus, heated his blood, and forced his body into subservience. Sleeping became a futile effort. He flung the bedding off and decided to seek comfort. His husband’s bedroom was down the hall, a mere handful of steps separating them from marital unity. He made certain to slip into the cold, space beside his snoring husband with care. John wished to wake him in a certain way. Immediately the overwhelming smell crinkled his nose. His fingers reached down to find wetness then something hard. He didn’t bother to cap the bottle properly and spilled his spirits before he fell asleep. John shied his hips and legs away but brought his forehead to meet his husband’s. A sigh escaped his lips then a soundless wail. He did not wake him to hurriedly air out the sheets and mattress. Anger bloomed in his chest and he slammed the door behind him secure in the fact the man he wedded remained comfortably asleep.

By Christ, he married a good man though the pendulum swung his emotions towards mere obligation. It puzzled him, how swift his mind reoriented their relationship. John minded after him and lent an open ear while providing pleasant conversations. They sank into uncomfortable silence upon the first pour, the air filled with the rich wood and grain aromatics. His stomach lurched to recall the slightly sour stale stink that soaked the bedding, the alcohol a nearly constant presence. Did his husband regret its loss or the state which led it to happen? His stomach turned and his mind followed into the evening after his father confirmed the marriage. To learn to love him would be the greatest obligation. And to tolerate?

Did Mr. Tozer merely tolerate him? During their oh too brief walks together did he placate John’s questions or were his responses genuine? He seemed to phrase them to stitch their thoughts together into a well-formed conversation. But John might be mistaking his politeness for the beginnings of a connection. Perhaps John radiated his loneliness as obvious as the sun its light. He may have letters, but they filled only a partial void. If he reached out his fingers grazed paper when he desired the press of flesh. It all seemed so mechanical and dull to scratch inquiries into days and events while experiencing none of the same. But he broke his monotony, the day’s climax centered around his time with him.

“We walked this place enough.” Mr. Tozer spoke in a soft, low voice one fine afternoon. John pulled his attention away from the jumble of pinks and phlox he wanted to cut for a bouquet. He never did because their beautiful faces should turn to the sky. John tilted his gaze to Solomon and studied his tanned face. The highs of his cheeks and ears tinged red from sunburn. John forced his hands to his side to keep from brushing a finger along his skin. Heated. Those places would be hot in comparison to the rest of him.

“The woods?” With a nod, they set off. As fast as they did Solomon gestured him to stop and stooped over a low mound of peonies. He snapped his knife open and twined two close stems between his fingers. With a formal bow, he extended the two fat headed flowers at John. The weighty peonies trembled in his hand so he clutched them a bit closer to his chest. They stood in silence for a moment before Solomon jutted his chin towards the forest and mentioned he lived there. In the woods.

The well-maintained walkway devolved into a narrow stone footpath before becoming a simple dirt path. John noticed the faint scuff marks left by Solomon’s previous journeys and made certain to avoid them. It felt like he disturbed the order of things by simply entering the green, the oak and maple canopies whispering about the interlopers. But Solomon tried to put him at ease by pointing out rabbit dens and a crumbling rock wall cutting through the landscape. The rocks were fine but needed reinforcing and refitting. John nodded and breathed in the mingled scent of rich soil and the sweetly simple flowers.

John briefly dodged behind a tree to take in the moment. The bark pushed through his shirt and he eagerly scraped his palm along the thick trunk. With great, greedy strokes he caught the roughness against his smooth palms, the gnarled knots of the old oak momentarily catching before his skin skimmed flaking lichen. For a moment he wished to become it, to merge his fragile frame with a massive oak. Climb higher and higher to reach the clouds.

He heard a confused shout then boots doubling back. But John held fast with his eyes closed, the two peonies drooping under his relaxed lips. The ground crunched until Mr. Tozer’s presence radiated in the form of heat. And like a flower, John tilted his face to him. No one would dare fault him for yielding. A finger skimmed along his jawline before settling against his throat, right below his Adam’s apple. John nearly melted into the touch, threatened to disappear completely, and fold his form into something small and wondrous. He simultaneously wished to fly off and sink in, to become anything the other man wished. But he remained simply-

“John.”

No one would dare fault him for inhaling Solomon’s breath.

He must have expected John to be a blushing bride, but his body remained sure and unrestrained in his movements. His hands reached and cupped Solomon’s flesh, lifting his muscular buttocks before separating each cheek. For a moment Solomon appeared taken aback by his sudden exposure and John’s greed, but it flashed away in an instant.

“He is not a wicked man.” They remained in bed, Solomon lying down while John knelt beside him to better peer out the window above them. He rested his elbows on the windowsill and watched the vibrant world. Observing from the ground, from within the forest washed John with a wave of equality he never experienced from his usual vantage point in his own home.

“Why bring him up?” A hand skimmed the back of his thigh before slipping between to cup his balls. John’s pleased hum strangled into a despondent sigh. “What do you want?”

“More than what he provides.”

“Then take what you want.”

John sank back down and did so, greedily. Without guilt.

His husband, a lush streaked with a sustained note of decency. Nothing more, nothing less. John understood his role in his life was to bridge a business relationship approved by his father. John accepted his husband and cared for him, yes. But the state of his own heart craved attention beyond flat and nebulous goodness. Decency. A weighty curtain in his mind dropped, the heavy velvet drapes soon falling afterward in great pooled puddles of miserable fabric. Replaced only by John’s desires. The empty wooden tables he covered with flower-filled vases and ribbon-wrapped branches.

Every bottle he drained to tuck in a single purple iris, the decanters holding bouquets of peonies.

**Author's Note:**

> Wholly indulgent and inspired by Lady Chatterley's Lover. 
> 
> Also brought about by the "flower" prompt for Irvday2021.


End file.
